Witching Moon
by Zil
Summary: Normalverse #13 The Scarlet Witch thinks about the everyday magic in her life. Feat. Iceman


It's Normalverse, which is a series of stand-alonesI write, essentially X-Men (and other characters) if they were 'normal', no powers. Hope you enjoy! 

!Zil!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and am making no money from this.

Blue Moon

The moon is full and very bright, round and glowing like a silver dollar. On nights like tonight I leave every curtain open to let in as much light as possible. There's magic in the moon, even just an ordinary full moon. I prefer harvest moons, so close to the earth you can almost touch them. I will stay awake all night just to see that moment before dawn where the moon turns red, bathing the world in scarlet light. Red like blood,' Bobby teased me once. Yes, I agreed, like blood. There's magic in blood too. There is the possibility of magic many places, if people just bother to look. But my favorite is the moon.

By its blue light I can see my youngest daughter asleep in her crib. Six months old and sleeping through the night. She's been sleeping through since she was just over a month. Cecelia called her a miracle child, and I know Bobby and I are certainly appreciative. Cecelia and Sean's son still wakes up some time in the wee hours just to check that his parents are still there. I remember the twins took longer too, constantly waking each other, Bobby and I always bleary-eyed.

My beautiful baby stirs. Veronica Gabrielle Drake, she was born almost a month early, on same day as Joshua Sean Cassidy, a darling little boy with caramel skin and velvet brown hair. Cece and I figure it's fate, we've got the wedding planned already. Vero sighs loudly and wriggles over onto her side, the light from the window slides off her soft baby features and lights her chestnut curls, turning them silver. My own hair, auburn in the sun, seems black in the moon's radiance.

She probably won't fall asleep again until I'm gone, but she doesn't make a big deal about being awake either. She looks just like her dad, with big blue eyes and hair every shade of brown, but she's definitely my girl. Wally and Ruby may be the spitting images of Pietro and I when we were small, but they'll grow up to be just as cute and boisterous as Bobby. Vero is already much more serene.

Gently I run my hands over her downy hair, my fingers dancing in some arcane pattern older then time itself. Her breathing's starting to even out, maybe she will fall asleep after all. She's got a nasty cold right now and her medicine needs to be taken every four hours. I feel bad for my baby but I cherish this chance to stand over her again. It's almost sad when they start sleeping through; it's like their first show of independence. My finger ballet works its way down her back, feeling her sweet baby rolls through her sleeper. In my work as a physical therapist I have learned how strong a touch can be, how much power there is in my hands.

From down the hall I hear the short scared cry of the household's newest addition. Turning quickly away from the crib I check to see that the twins haven't woken. They're still asleep; Ruby's quiet, but Wally snuffles softly in a way that makes my heart skip a beat for love of him. Vero's eyes are now wide open, but she makes no sound. I smooth her blanket and kiss her head and cross carefully out of the room, over-stuffed with two toddler beds, a crib and an assortment of toys, to pad down the hallway to the other small bedroom.

I stop at the doorway when I see someone has beaten me here. Bobby kneels next to the bed where Lee's small body is curled into a tight ball, shivering with nighttime fears. He mutters soft things into the little boy's hair, drawing Lee out of his dark, cavernous dreamscape and back to restful sleep. My husband catches my eye and gives me a smile. He's got this covered; I can go back to bed. I lean against the doorframe and watch them for a few moments instead. This is why I married Bobby. On the outside he may seem like an irresponsible lout, dashing through life, trying to get a few laughs, but he's never shaken my shoulder in the night and told me the baby's crying. Or in our case, babies.

The pale moonlight doesn't so much fill this room as creep cautiously in around the edges, as if unsure of its welcome. This impression seems appropriate considering room's occupant. Quiet and careful, Lee seems to expect things he touches to be taken away; he is wary of love, as if he's used to people who are nice wanting something in return. But I think we're wearing him down.

There was some initial concern with us taking him in, what with twins aged three, a new baby and Bobby's frequent work-travelling, but I knew he was right for us. Sometimes I look at a situation and even though the outcome seems improbable, I just know how it will turn out, how to make it work. We started the adoption proceedings last week, the day we held his birthday party. I'm generally seen as a steady person, Wanda Maximoff Drake, invariable. Actually I often do things that are unpredictable, only they work out so well that people later forget why they were at first surprised when I make an improbable choice.

This seven-year-old with floppy blond hair and luminous green eyes has been living with us for just over two months and is becoming a happy, bright boy during the day; but at night his demons creep out of hiding to frighten him. He wakes with strange dreams that he can only describe short utterances: cement', holes' or glowing butterflies'. He often ended up in our bed by morning, during that first month. Now he's at least spending every night in his bed, and the fears only come every once and a while. When he goes a week with out nightmares we're going to move Wally in with him.

Slowly Lee's body begins to relax, his frantic breathing slowing, calming. Bobby waits a few minutes more; hegently brushes Lee's thick bangs off his face, his touch soothing that hot little forehead. When Lee has drifted into an easy sleep Bobby rises and walks over to me. He puts his arms around me and buries his face in my neck. His body is cool; his embrace is like a breath of fresh air. My hand slips under the back of the ratty old tee shirt he sleeps in, tracing an intricate design on his bare skin. I feel tension draining out of him. I could stand here forever with this man, in this house full of moonlight and sleeping children. He lifts his head to softly kiss my lips, and we move with light steps to our room, where the moon covers our bed.


End file.
